


Season 8 Moments & Wishes

by StarksDeservedBetter



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Family Reunions, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-01-15 06:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18493576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarksDeservedBetter/pseuds/StarksDeservedBetter
Summary: A compilation of moments from the final season of Game of Thrones, but done slightly differently. The writers of the show are glossing over some important detail and adding some cringy dialogue. I'll try to rectify that problem by adding my own cringy dialogue instead ;)





	1. Survivors

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! After watching Season 8 I had the inspiration to cover some of the moments where I thought important detail was glossed over and include some of the things I hoped would be included during the long two year wait. It’s a bit of a change of pace from what I normally do, but I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> I’d like to once again thank my betas, and my readers, for without you none of this would be worth doing <3

How many Starks had stood before the heart tree in Winterfell and prayed to the Old Gods? Hundreds? Thousands? The tree had seen kings, queens, wars, betrayals, sacrifices… They had seen much. Jon pressed a gloved hand against the pale bark of the trunk and sighed with his head bowed. He looked at the tangle of roots, and how the snow covered them. He remembered sitting here with his father; praying silently to the gods that he would be named Stark while his father sat in pensive silence. He'd played in the godswood with Robb and Bran and Arya and Rickon, falling over the roots and scraping their knees on the rocks. A wry smile crossed Jon’s face. _“How times change,”_ he thought to himself while the blood red leaves of the trees rustled in the faintest of winds. Coming home was different. He had known the northerners would be suspicious of Daenerys, but still, he believed that they knew the war to come was more important. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe he should have fled south, away from this problem, taking Daenerys with him. She deserved better than this. But he could not entertain such thoughts; protecting the realm was his duty. Someone once said to him that no one would ever thank him for protecting the kingdoms while they sat in their warm beds and drank their rich wines. Jon had thought that of the southerners, but had never considered that the northerners would be exactly the same. It was crushing to him. When all of this was over, he…

**Snap.**

Jon’s ears pricked at the noise that came to his right. He turned his head ever so slightly, but couldn't see anything. It must have been some game roaming the godswood, evading the bows of the Dothraki.

“You used to be taller,” a familiar voice said to his left. Jon turned around in shock, and his cloak dragged through the snow and sent a fine dusting of white into the air around him. There stood Arya. Arya. A woman grown. His sister. A survivor. Jon was in shock; he couldn't find the right words, or even believe it was her.

“You used to be skinnier,” Jon said, almost in disbelief. Arya remained expressionless, but he saw a hint of that playful smirk and the childish gleam in her eye that he remembered. “How did you sneak up on me? Hard to do in snow.”

“You were always easy to sneak up on,” Arya replied with a shrug. “Like that time in the kitchens, where you were stealing that wedge of cheese.” Jon winced; he had forgotten that moment, and how Arya had frightened him and made him lose his balance on the stool he was using as a step. Arya took a step forward and cast her eyes to the ground. “When I came back to Westeros, all I heard were stories about you. The King in the North, the White Wolf… People talked more about you than Robb, or Father. I couldn't believe what I heard.” Jon stayed where he stood and watched his sister. He wasn't sure what she had heard.

“Folk like their stories in times of war,” he said after a moment. “Gives them hope. Gives them something else to think about. Even if it's just that; a story.” Arya looked up from the ground and her brown eyes locked onto his in an intense, sad gaze.

“They said you took a knife in the heart for your people,” she said, and her bottom lip quivered. “How did you survive that?”

“I didn’t,” Jon admitted. “How did you survive leaving Westeros?”

“I didn't,” Arya echoed. Jon was lost for a moment, before he heard what sounded like a snivel from Arya before she ran at him and launched herself into his arms. He caught her, like he always had, and held her tight against him. It was a hug from their youth. Arya clung to him tighter than he could remember and he could hear her shaky breath in his ear, as if she was fighting tears. Jon was lucky that their furs were pushed up against his eyes, for he could feel tears sliding slowly down his cheeks.

“I missed you, big brother,” Arya whispered into his ear. Jon hugged her tighter and could feel her arms tighten around him as well.

“Missed you too,” Jon whispered back. They stayed frozen in silence for a moment longer, before Arya let go of his neck. Jon released his hold and she dropped back onto the ground. It wasn't as long of a drop as it used to be. Jon took a moment to admire her. Arya had grown up; she looked strong, and well, but tired. She had clearly been through a lot. She wore clothing that was typical Arya as well, and then Jon noticed what was hanging at her hip.

“You still have it,” he said with disbelief. Arya grinned, and then pulled her sword Needle from its sheathe in one fluid motion.

“Needle,” Arya stated proudly. A smile came to Jon’s face.

“It was always a fitting name,” he said as he glanced down the length of the blade. He could make out some faint notches in the steel; telltale signs of combat. “You've had to use it.” It was a statement, not a question. He looked up and saw the smile fade from Arya’s face, and a wounded look took its place.

“Once or twice,” Arya said softly, as if her thoughts had diverted elsewhere. Jon understood. Talking about the past was unpleasant for him as well. He let her have her moment, before he took the blade from her hands.

“Too light for me,” he stated while waving the skinny blade around. Arya looked up and laughed at him.

“You look ridiculous with it,” she said. Jon laughed and a smile settled across his face, and a comforting warmth also settled in his stomach. He offered the hilt back to Arya, and she took it without a word and sheathed the blade back at her side. He watched her eyes, and how they fell to the pommel of his blade. A grin broke across Arya’s face. Jon’s smile widened and he dragged Longclaw free from its sheath, and then laid the blade flat in one hand while he held the hilt with the other. He weighed the blade for a moment, before he offered the sword to Arya. Arya took it tentatively, and Jon noticed her arms bow ever so slightly when she took the weight of the blade.

“Valyrian steel,” she said in awe.

“Jealous?” Jon teased. Arya snorted and shook her head.

“Too heavy for me,” she replied. “Like you said; I need to be quick. This isn't me.” She ran her eyes down the blade and examined the patterns that were woven into the steel. “Hard to believe that Ice was older than this.”

“You know who Longclaw belonged to?” Jon asked.

“House Mormont,” Arya replied. “Your most loyal supporter, according to Sansa. They were the first to declare you King in the North.” Jon winced, and Arya clearly noticed. Discussion of northern politics was a sore point. Instead she weighed the blade in her hands, before she offered it back to Jon. Jon placed his blade back into its sheath and let out a heavy sigh.

“How do you know that?” he asked.

“Sansa told me,” Arya replied. Jon glanced down to his left, before he looked back to Arya and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“I could have used your help with her before,” he admitted. He leant in slightly, so that he was at eye level with his sister. Arya gazed back at him, with wide unblinking brown eyes.

“She doesn't like your queen,” Arya noted. “Does she?”

“Our queen,” Jon corrected. Arya looked down at his hand, and the armoured part of Jon’s glove, she looked back at him. “Sansa thinks she's smarter than everyone else.”

“She's not the idiot she used to be. She's grown up. We all have,” Arya replied. Jon was in disbelief. He never thought he'd see this day.

“You're defending Sansa,” he said. “You. Defending her.” He stood upright and removed his hand from her shoulder.

“I'm defending our family,” Arya replied, cool as ice, “So is she. After all the things that have happened, is that so bad?” Jon paused. Silence filled the air between the siblings.

“I'm her family too,” he said after the pause. Arya stared at him. Again there was a silence, but this one was longer and more uncomfortable.

“When the snows fall, and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” Arya said, almost like a chant. “I'm a survivor. She's a survivor. You're a survivor. Bran is a survivor. We are a pack.” She stepped forward and threw her arms around Jon and pulled him in for another warm hug. “Don't forget that.”

“I'm trying to protect us,” Jon murmured as he pulled his arms around Arya and held her in a warm embrace.

“I know,” she whispered back. Jon breathed in and a smile came to his face. They stayed like that, holding each other beneath the heart tree, until Jon’s arms were numb from the cold. He had missed her; he had missed this. Finally, the pack was united again. Finally he was home.


	2. M'lady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was waaaaay too short and way not detailed enough for what it needed to be. It's such a pure, good ship and deserves more. So, enjoy!  
> Thank you for all the love and support on this so far! It's quite overwhelming and I can't believe people actually like it :)

The fires of the forge were raging when Arya stepped into the stone building. She remembered how Mikken used to work here, and how she would sneak in to look at the swords he had smelted as they sat on their racks cooling. Now the forge was filled with weapons smelted from black dragonglass, designed to kill the dead that were coming. She took her time walking through the forge, admiring every piece on display, until she heard a familiar gruff voice.

“So which one are you?” The Hound asked. Arya quietly approached from around the corner and saw the giant man sitting on an anvil, and in front of him… Arya’s breath caught in her throat. Gendry. After all this time, he was still alive. She took a moment to gather herself, before taking a step forward.

“Leave him be,” Arya said confidently. Both Gendry and the Hound snapped their eyes to her. Clegane stood up from the anvil and tightened his grip on the dragonglass axe he was holding.

“I heard you were here,” he said in his usual dry tone. “You left me to die.” Arya stood her ground and looked at him. She would not be fazed by his intimidating nature. Instead she tried her best to counter it.

“No. First I robbed you,” she said in a steady monotone. The Hound slowly approached her. Every step he took crunched on the gravel until he was standing in front of her, towering above her. She raised her grey eyes to stare up at him, and he stared down at hers with those coal black eyes filled with pain and hate. The only sound in the room was the crackling of the forges, and the hammer striking the hot metals.

“You're a cold little bitch, aren't you?” The Hound asked in a menacing tone. Arya said nothing, she just stared up at him. Another moment of tense silence passed, before she saw the hint of a smile behind Clegane’s thick, wild beard. “Guess that's why you're still alive.”

“You should know; you taught me,” Arya replied. The big man grunted and walked off without saying another word. Arya watched him go and clutched her hands tighter at her front. He could have split her in half if he wanted to with that nice new axe. _“I owe him a lot,”_ she thought. Without the Hound, she never would have made it to Braavos. She heard footsteps approaching and turned back around to see Gendry standing closer, staring at her in disbelief.

“How…” he began to say.

“You've gotten better,” Arya said. “And you forge with a shirt on now.” Gendry gawked at her, then he laughed nervously.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. “So have you. At erm… looking. I mean you look… good…” Arya arched an eyebrow at his stumbled attempt to flirt with her. She had missed him.

“Thanks,” she said as deadpan as she could. “So do you.” Gods be damned she couldn't help herself. Gendry did look good. He had grown plenty in the years they had been apart. He looked far stronger now, and was starting to sport a rather attractive style of stubble. If he wasn't filthy and sweaty, he could have passed for nobility. But Arya preferred this version of Gendry. Gendry was visibly taken aback by her comment. Arya smirked, then walked forward toward the bench where Gendry had been sharpening his weapons.

“Not a bad place to grow up,” Gendry said behind her. “If it wasn't so cold.” Arya snorted lightly; of course he would complain about the cold.

“Stand close to that forge then, southern boy,” Arya teased. “Wouldn't wasn't any bits freezing off now would we?”

“Oh, is that a command Lady Stark?” Gendry asked as he picked up his hammer. Arya swatted his hand so hard he dropped the hammer. Luckily, it didn't land on his toes, or this encounter would have gone to shit.

“Don't call me that,” Arya hissed. Gendry huffed and bent down to pick up his hammer. He laid it back on his bench and turned to look at her. His face flickered with shadow from the dancing flames, but Arya could still see those vibrant blue eyes smiling at her.

“As you wish, m’lady,” Gendry teased. Arya rolled her eyes at him, but her stomach was doing front flips.

_“He remembered,”_ she realised. _“He remembered. And he probably remembers I hate it. Little shit.”_ Arya tried her best to glare at him, but a giggle broke free from her stoic composure. Gendry chuckled as well, but then he turned back to his work bench and dragged a giant dragonglass hammer onto the lathe. He tightened the bolts before he polished the glassy surface with a wet rag.

“Do you like it?” he asked, nodding at the hammer.

“It suits you,” Arya noted. “Do you know how to use one?” Gendry snorted at the question.

“Of course I know how to use one,” he grumbled. “Didn't Jon tell you? I went beyond the Wall with him.” No, Jon hadn't told her that he'd taken her Gendry out on his suicide expedition. Arya made a note to berate him about that later. “Thought I don't much stand sideways.”

“Sideface,” Arya corrected. “You don't need to if you're just going to cave people in with a big hammer.”

“It worked for my father,” Gendry said. There was a wistful tone to his voice; a sense of longing, like he regretted never meeting his much revered father. “It's my wish to go to Storms’ End after all this. To see home. Pay my respects.” Arya understood his longing for home. Maybe she would get to go with him. Instead she unfurled the scroll she had been clutching onto and laid it out on Gendry’s table so that he could see it.

“This is my wish,” Arya said breathlessly, like a girl asking her mother for a new dress. Gendry looked at the plans she had sketched out, before he looked up at her with a frown.

“You already have a sword. What do you need something like this for?” he asked. Arya looked at the spear she had sketched out.

“To fight the dead,” she said. “Can you make it?”

“Why are you planning to fight the dead?” Gendry asked. Suddenly he was protective of her.

“Because I'm a better fighter than half the men in Winterfell. Can you make it or not?” she asked again.

“I can make it,” Gendry said. Arya noticed him rake his eyes up and down her. It sent a chill racing up her spine. No one had ever looked at her like that before. “What's that?” Gendry asked, before he pointed to her hip. It took a second for Arya to realise he was pointing at the dagger. She removed it from its sheath and flipped it blade-over-hilt, and presented it to him. Gendry took the dagger and turned it over, examining the metal. “Valyrian steel,” he noted with a laugh. “Always knew you were just another rich highborn girl.” Arya snatched the dagger back, but was careful to not cut him. She jammed the blade back in the sheath on her hip.

“You don't know any other rich highborn girls,” she said in a teasing, sassy voice. She walked off before Gendry could say anything, but she felt his eyes boring into her back. Before she walked out of the forge, Arya twirled around to face him, making sure that her hair flicked over her shoulder in a move Sansa would have been jealous of. She winked at him, before completing her turn and strode out of the forge confidently. Her heart was pounding; Gendry was alive and well. And he looked… well, he looked great. And he remembered everything. As Arya stepped out onto the muddy path that led back to Winterfell, she wondered if Gendry remembered her promise that she could be his family. After this was over, if they both lived, she wanted to make good on that promise. It would be a good life. A happy life. A life filled with forging weapons, fighting, and then getting close in the forge… Arya had to snap herself out of that thought. She could allow herself to think about that later, when she was alone. For now, she had to go find Jon and yell at him for endangering the life of the last Baratheon. Gods he could be thick sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm messing around with Scrivener and how to copy+paste from that. Let me know which layout/format you prefer out of Chapter 1 and Chapter 2 :)


	3. Have Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s time for some tension between the two angsty half-siblings. Plus Ghost!  
> Thank you all again for the response. Honestly I’m lost for words. And thank you on the feedback from Scrivener formatting! It’s a bitch to use but I’m getting used to it, I think…

Jon knocked on the door three times. He waited, with Ghost at his side, feeling tired and drained. He knew returning back to the North having bent the knee was going to be problematic, but the reaction from the Northern lords was unfathomable. Daenerys didn't have to be here, but she was, so the least they could show was some gratitude.

“Come in,” Sansa’s voice said from the other side of the door. Jon turned the handle and walked inside with Ghost at his heels. He gently pushed the door shut and stepped past the candelabra toward where Sansa sat, at what used to be their father’s desk. Ghost flopped on the floor near the hearth with his belly facing the Stark siblings. “You've been inseparable since your return,” Sansa said, nodding toward the large direwolf. Jon smiled and removed his gloves from his hands. He noticed that Sansa was holding a scroll in her hands, but he couldn't make out the sigil printed on it.

“Good news?” Jon asked as he removed his other glove. Sansa looked at him and Jon saw the glowering anger in her eyes.

“Lord Glover wishes us good fortune, but he's staying in Deepwood Motte with his men,” Sansa stated coldly. Jon sighed and threw his gloves onto the table.

“House Glover will stand behind House Stark as we have done for a thousand years,” Jon grumbled wistfully. “That's what he swore.” He looked back to Sansa, who was still glowering at him.

“And I will stand behind Jon Snow. The King in the North.” Those last five words were almost spat at him.

“After the war… I'll ride north. I'll root him out of his keep, and hang him as an oath breaker,” Jon swore. Sansa stood up from where she sat and approached the second, smaller hearth in the room. She said nothing to him. Jon sighed and wrung his hands together. “What?” he asked. “I told you; we needed allies to win the war against the dead.”

“You didn't tell me you were going to give up your crown,” Sansa said bitterly. “Because of that I have been fighting to keep the Northern lords here, at Winterfell, for your war. They wanted to give me the crown you gave up. But I didn't, for you. Because I didn't think you were foolish enough to forsake the trust that your people placed in you.” Every word Sansa said was bitter, and every word cut Jon to the core.

“Foolish,” Jon repeated with a laugh. “I never wanted the crown. I never asked for it. All I ever wanted was to protect the North. My home. My family. I brought two armies home to defend the north. Two dragons.”

“And a **Targaryen** queen,” Sansa butted in. “A Targaryen queen who burns her prisoners alive, or so I've been told.” Jon didn't bat an eyelid, but he knew that to be true. He had heard what had happened in Essos. And the Targaryens did have a history involving fire and their prisoners. It would be easy to make certain comparisons if he was in Sansa’s position.

“Do you think we can win without her?” Jon asked.

“The better question is do I think we can win at all,” Sansa snapped back. Jon paused, stunned by her frank admission.

“I've fought them, Sansa. Twice. Once at Hardhome, once beyond the Wall,” Jon began to say.

“Ah yes, your expedition that almost got you killed,” Sansa reminded him. “You could have come to Winterfell first.”

“There was no time…” Jon began.

“No time for what? To consult the person you left in charge? To tell me you planned to go capture a wight to what? Partition to Cersei? You're lucky she didn't behead you the minute you stepped foot into King’s Landing,” Sansa exploded. “We're meant to help each other, Jon. I could have told you bargaining with Cersei was a bad idea. Now she knows your loyalties. Our loyalties. If she raises an army…”

“She doesn't have the men!” Jon shouted back.

“If she marches North, even with a small force, while we’re fighting the Dead, what are we meant to do?” Sansa rebutted. “Fight a war on two fronts? That's what happened to Robb!”

“At least Robb kept his crown!” Sansa yelled. Jon slammed his fist down into the desk so hard to made Ghost sit upright.

“It doesn't matter Sansa!” he yelled back. “You want to worry about politics and titles and kingdoms. It doesn't matter. None of this will matter if the Dead win. Without her, we don't stand a chance. I've seen the army, all of it. We need her!” Sansa was staring at him with a look of fear frozen across her face. Jon let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes. He shouldn't have gotten angry at her. Not here, not in this room, after what he had done in this castle. A long silence fell between the siblings while Jon gathered his composure. “Do you have any faith in me at all?” he asked, his voice slightly husky.

“You know I do,” Sansa said. Her words were devoid of warmth though, and she looked visibly shaken. Jon stepped forward until he was inches away from his sister.

“She's a good person,” he said. “She’ll be a good queen. She's… she's not her father.” Sansa looked to the floor before she let out a tense sigh.

“She's much prettier,” she said with a smile. Jon laughed and the tension between the two eased.

“She's like you, in a way” Jon said. “Strong, kind, brave, protective of her people. Loyal. You'd like her, if you gave her a chance.” Sansa looked up at him and their gazes locked.

“Jon,” Sansa said softly, “did you bend the knee to the save North? Or because you love her?” Jon looked to the floor, then looked back to Sansa.

“Does it matter?” he asked.

“Men do stupid things for love,” Sansa explained. “Men lie. Men cheat. Men create a war between the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I'm not Littlefinger,” Jon interrupted.

“No, you're not as tall,” Sansa joked. “Men do things without thinking when they're in love. They're easy to manipulate.” Jon was wounded at that implication.

“Dany would never…” he began to say.

“She might not. But think about the men at her side,” Sansa suggested. Jon paused for a moment. Tyrion was a good man, despite his flaws. And Ser Jorah had honour. But…

“Varys,” Jon said after a moment.

“Varys,” Sansa echoed. “A man who served two of the worst kings in recent history; her father, and Joffrey. Can you trust that he isn't manipulating her, the same way he twisted her father?” Jon could not say that he trusted the eunuch entirely. Especially given his history. “So did you bend the knee for love, or to protect the North?” Sansa was looking at him with those blue eyes, analysing every action he made.

“I bent the knee to protect the North,” Jon said. “It was the only way to get her armies and her dragons.”

“And yet you love her,” Sansa observed.

“Aye,” Jon admitted. “She has a good heart.” Sansa stood there and held her cold exterior, before a smile cracked across her face.

“I didn't think you were capable,” she teased. “I thought you only knew how to brood and be miserable.”

“There's plenty of time for brooding,” Jon said. Sansa laughed at his comment.

“I suppose there is,” she said wistfully, “until the dead arrive.” An uncomfortable silence settled into the room, save for the crackling of the flames as their shadows danced around the stone walls.

“Sansa,” Jon said after a while, breaking the silence. “I'm sorry for yelling before.”

“I'm sorry for doubting you,” Sansa said, though Jon thought it was a little begrudging.

“If you have the time, before the war begins… At least talk to Daenerys,” Jon asked. Sansa looked away from him, out the darkened window. She stared outside for a moment, then looked back to Jon.

“I'll try,” she said. Jon smiled at that. He closed the gap between them and wrapped his arms around Sansa in a warm embrace.

“Thank you,” he said softly. Sansa returned the hug and embraced him tightly, and then they separated. “You should get some rest,” he said.

“So should you,” Sansa pointed out. “You look exhausted.” Jon sighed and retrieved his gloves from the desk. “Jon,” Sansa said as he was leaving. He turned back around to look at her. “Be careful,” she cautioned. Jon nodded in response and opened the door to the hallway. Ghost was at his heels without him having to call the wolf. As he shut the door, Jon turned his head toward the stairwell that led down toward the courtyard. He had one more stop to make before he went to bed for the night.


	4. The Brother I Chose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so episode 2 is insane and I have SO MANY FEELINGS.  
> I'm going to do my best to absolutely pump out as many parts of this as I can because my fucking heart is going to snap next week, I can feel it.
> 
> Thank you for the overwhelming support. I truly do appreciate it, you all mean the world to me <3

_“What would you have done if you were here now Father?”_ Jon wondered as he stared at the etched stone visage of Eddard Stark. _“Would you have bent the knee? You fought the Targaryens in the Rebellion… But this goes above family now.”_ He sighed and placed his hand atop the pommel of Longclaw. _“Are you proud of me? Of what I've done; what I've had to do? I did my best to do what was right. Yet when you ruled, everyone in the North loved you. No one was disgruntled and fickle. If you could see the North now…_ ” Jon lowered his eyes down to the base of the statue, where his father’s bones lay beneath the ceremonial iron sword. _“Maybe I've failed you. Maybe I've failed the North. If I have, well, at least I won't have to live with my mistake for long.”_ He looked around the crypt; at the row of statues that stretched as far as the light carried. “I wonder; would I have been buried down here?” Jon let out the breath he was holding, but before he could return to his thoughts he heard someone trip and fall.

“Bloody stones,” said a voice echoing down the crypts. “Bloody darkness.” Jon walked along the pathway, heading toward where the voice came from. He could hear the person snivelling and groaning. It could only be one person. Jon rounded the corner and sure enough, Samwell Tarly sat there on his hands and knees in the darkness.

“Sam?” Jon asked, just in case he was mistaken. Sam looked up with a startled yelp.

“Oh! Oh, I'm… I'm sorry, I know I'm not supposed to be down here,” he said with a tremble as he got to his feet and stoop upright. Jon disregarded that and walked forward and pulled Sam into a tight embrace. He clapped his friend on the back before he pulled away.

“Were you hiding from me?” Jon asked with a smile.

“Of course not,” Sam replied. “Just… these stones, it gets so slippery down here with the condensation of the warm air.” Jon laughed; of course the first thing Sam said was a fact about stones. He hadn't changed.

“What are you doing in Winterfell?” Jon asked as he placed a hand on Sams arm. “Did you read every book in the Citadel already?” he said in jest. But Sam wasn't laughing. Jon stopped smiling; he could see tears on his friend’s cheeks. “Sam. What's wrong? Gilly? She alright?” Sam nodded in that rapid motion that Jon had become accustomed to. “Little Sam?”

“Not so little anymore,” Sam said, “but he's good.”

“What then?” Jon asked. Sam took a shaky breath in.

“Don't you know?” Sam asked.

“Know what?” Jon said, digging for more information. This wasn't simply a you know nothing Jon moment. Something was clearly troubling his friend.

“Daenerys,” Sam said with venom. Jon felt his heart sink. “She executed my father and my brother. They were her prisoners after the Battle of Highgarden.” Jon stared at Sam in confusion. The Battle of… Jon remembered their talk on the beach before Dany had flown off, and how she had returned so quickly. She hadn't mentioned prisoners, nor any executions, only that her dragon had… It took everything Jon had to not weep for his friend’s loss.

“Sam,” Jon said as he moved his hand to Sam’s shoulder. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” Sam blinked away fresh tears. “We need to end this war Sam. We need her to end it. We both know it.”

“Would you have done it?” Sam asked. Jon could hear the anger in his voice. He hesitated, unsure of how to answer.

“I've executed men who disobeyed me. Men who betrayed their oaths,” Jon said.

“You also spares thousands of men. The wildlings. When you let them through the Wall,” Sam reminded him.

“And I paid the price for it,” Jon cut in. Sam looked at him, confused.

“Price? What price?” he asked. Jon realised that no one had informed Sam about the mutiny.

“After you left… there was a mutiny. Ser Alliser and his supporters. They… they put knives in me. Olly put a knife in my heart, Sam. That should have been it. I should have been dead. But Stannis’ red priestess brought me back,” Jon explained.

“Oh… That's one way to get out of the Night’s Watch vow,” Sam said. “How did she do it?”

“I don't know how she did it,” Jon said. “But I executed those men.”

“Those men betrayed you. They didn't refuse to kneel, like the wildlings you spared,” Sam said.

“Sam… I wasn't a king,” Jon stated.

“But you were,” Sam stated.

“I know the Wildlings called me King Crow,” Jon recalled, “but that doesn't make me a King.” He removed his hand from Sam’s shoulder and walked back down the line of statues in the crypt. “I became King in the North and gave up my crown to the rightful ruler. I'm not the King in the North anymore.”

“I'm not talking about the King in the North, I'm talking about the King of the bloody Seven Kingdoms,” Sam said in a hot, raised voice. Jon stopped walking and froze in place, then turned back to look at his friend.

“Are you mad?” Jon asked.

“Bran and I figured it out,” Sam said as he slowly approached Jon. “I had the diary of a High Septon, Bran had… well, whatever Bran has, and then we found a letter from Howland Reed meant for you. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have opened it.”

“What madness are you speaking?” Jon asked, with anger creeping into his voice.

“Your mother. We… well…” Sam babbled. Jon felt his heart stop. They knew who his mother was.

“Say it Sam,” Jon urged.

“Your mother… was Lyanna Stark,” Sam finally admitted. Jon’s anticipation quickly turned to rage. How dare Sam imply… “And your father… your real father, was Rhaegar Targaryen.” Jon froze again. This was madness. A fever dream. The cold and the fear had gotten to Sam and turned him mad. But yet he continued. “You've never been a bastard. Your name is Aegon Targaryen. The true heir to the Iron Throne.” Jon could hear himself breathing as every emotion possible raged inside of him. Sam looked at the floor and then looked back up at Jon. “I'm sorry, I know it's a lot to take in…” Jon marched forward toward Sam, until he was inches away. But Sam didn't flinch. He just looked at Jon sympathetically.

“My father was the most honourable man I ever met,” Jon spat once he had come to a stop. “Now you're telling me he lied to me my entire life? Here, in the crypt where he was laid to rest?” Sam shook his head at Jon’s words.

“No. Your father… well, Eddard Stark, protected you all your life. If Robert Baratheon had found out you would have been murdered the same way your, well, siblings were. He promised your mother to protect you on her death bed. She died after giving you life. And with her final breath she made him promise her that he would keep you safe.” Jon glanced at the statue to his right. The sad visage of Lyanna Stark stared back at him. “You're the true King.” Sam’s words brought Jon back to reality.

“What?” he asked in disbelief.

“As the last son of Rhaegar, you have the best claim to the Iron Throne,” Sam said. “Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name, Protector of the Realm. All of it.” Jon took two steps backward, and again looked at the statue of Lyanna.

_“It can't be…”_ he thought, but then Sam produced a neatly folded letter from the back of his belt and held it out in front of him. Jon took the parchment and opened the first fold.

_“I have done my best to guard the secret but the end comes for us all. You have a right to know, before the dead march on Winterfell. We will hold the Neck for you, as we have done for generations.  
Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch.”_

Jon looked back up to Sam, who was staring at him. “Daenerys is our Queen,” Jon said adamantly.

“She shouldn't be,” Sam rebutted.

“Sam, that's treason,” Jon hissed.

“It's the truth,” Sam said. “You gave up your crown to save your people. Would she do the same?” Jon didn't want to think about it.

“Sam, it's late,” he said. “We need to rest. It was… good to see you again.” He stormed past Sam and headed for the exit to the crypts, leaving behind the brother he chose. The man who he trusted. The man who had shattered his entire world.


	5. Strong Women

Sansa had read enough ledgers to last her a lifetime. She groaned quietly while she scanned the livestock and food supply records. These two armies that had been brought to her doorstep was a logistical nightmare. If the dead didn't kill them all, starvation surely would. She pressed a hand to her forehead and squeezed her temples gently to try to push the growing pressure of a headache away. She had a pile of books stacked to her side, and among them was the story of Florian and Jonquil. She debated whether she could afford to open it and read a few pages, as a break from all the logistical reading she had been doing.

“My lady,” a voice said. Turns out she couldn't read a few pages. Sansa looked up and saw Daenerys standing in the doorway of the library. This was the last thing she needed to ease her growing headache. Sansa stood as protocol dictated and bowed her head respectfully.

“Your Grace,” Sansa said as flatly as she could.

“Is this a bad time?” Daenerys asked.

“No, Your Grace. I was just reviewing our food supply records,” Sansa explained. A wry smile crossed Danaerys’ face.

“I didn't expect you to try to figure out what my dragons would want to eat from your stores,” she said in a lighthearted manner. Sansa looked at her and couldn't help herself from smiling.

“I assumed they would empty them, and still be hungry,” Sansa said. “There used to be six direwolf pups growing in this castle. I can only imagine what the cooks thought every time they heard the howls of the hungry pups at their doors.” Daenerys’ smile grew just that little bit wider.

“And here I was thinking we would never find something to laugh about,” she said wistfully as she approached the chair opposite Sansa. “I hope you're right about Ser Jaime.”

“I trust Brienne’s word,” Sansa states as she resumed her cold exterior. It was her armour against the charismatic queen. “She has always been loyal; she has always been honourable. I trust her more than anyone.”

“I wish I could have that kind of faith in my advisers,” Daenerys said sharply. Sansa paused. There clearly was a new layer of tension between Daenerys and Tyrion now that Jaime had arrived. And she knew that things could quickly become volatile.

“Tyrion is a good man,” she said. “He was always decent and kind. He drank a little too much, but it seems time has changed him.” That wry smile returned to Daenerys ’ face once again.

“It was part of our deal,” she muttered. “But I didn't make Tyrion my Hand because he was a good man. I asked him to be my Hand because he was good, and intelligent, and ruthless when he needed to be.” Daenerys slowly walked toward Sansa until her hands were resting on top of the chair opposite where Sansa stood. “Tell me; did I choose wrong?” Sansa was stunned. Why would she, of all people, ask that question.

“I… I would never presume to…” Sansa began to say. Daenerys interrupted with a sharp, harsh laugh.

“You're just like your brother,” she commented. “I'm asking you if I chose wrong. Did I choose a Hand who will stab me in the back, like his brother did to my father?”

“I don't believe so,” Sansa admitted. “No one hates Tyrion more than Cersei. It's hard to believe that he would betray your cause for her. There is almost nothing in this world that would make him agree to that.”

“Almost nothing?” Daenerys asked.

“Well, unless Cersei promised him the Arbor to rule over…” Sansa suggested as a joke. Daenerys didn't smile however.

“You know Cersei, don't you?” she asked.

“In a manner of speaking,” Sansa replied. “But not as well as he does. Families are… complicated.” Those words seemed to quell the fury that raged inside of Daenerys.

“Ours have been,” Daenerys reminisced, then she walked to sit in the chair. She paused, and indicated for Sansa to sit. Sansa did as Daenerys wanted and sat back in her chair and placed her hands on the library table. Daenerys took her seat and folded her hands in her lap.

“It's a sad thing to have in common,” Sansa noted.

“But not the only thing we have in common,” Daenerys pointed out. “We both know what it means to lead people who historically reject female rulers. That takes real strength.” A smile broke across Sansa’s face. “We have both endured interesting marriages. Both lost our homes. And we've both fought to retake them from the people that stole it away from us.” She was right; they did have an awful lot in common. Sansa wrung her hands together and considered her next words carefully as a silence fell between the two women.

“Jon said that we are alike. We’re both strong, and brave, and kind,” Sansa said. Daenerys smiled warmly at the comment.

“And we both know when to tell him he's being an honourable fool,” she said. Sansa laughed, but was also surprised.

“He can't help himself, can he?” she wondered aloud.

“No, he really can't,” Daenerys responded. “It's a trait you love to hate.” Sansa continued to smile. She had to agree with Daenerys; Jon’s honour had caused tensions before. “Despite all this, I cant help but feel we are at odds with one another. Why is that?” Sansa took a slow breath in and once again had to consider her words. She knew the game they were playing. She had played it many times before.

“Everything I do is to protect my family,” Sansa said after another moment of silence. “I was not close to any of my siblings when we were growing up. I was always the outcast. Jon Robb and Arya were off hunting and riding and fighting, while I sewed dresses and sang pretty songs. But when I lost my family… I lost myself. And now they're all back it's my job to protect them. To redeem myself for how I used to be.” Daenerys nodded at her admission. “I don't expect you to understand…”

“I understand,” Daenerys said softly. “All my life I've lived with the knowledge of what my family is. Was. My father, the Mad King. My brother Viserys, the crazed fool. And my eldest brother, the tragic hero who kidnapped and raped your aunt. I've been on my own, fighting to reclaim what was my families. I fought in a foreign country thinking I would die before I saw Westeros again. And I fought knowing that I was the end of my house. I cannot bear children. The only family I have are my dragons. They are the only thing in this world that I love.”

“And my brother,” Sansa pointed out. “You love him. And he loves you.” Daenerys brought her violet eyes up to meet Sansa’s gaze.

“And this bothers you,” she observed.

“I've seen what love does to men. It makes them foolish. Easy to manipulate.” Daenerys recoiled back into her chair.

“I gave up my war of conquest for Jon. I unknowingly sacrificed a dragon to save him Beyond the Wall. I came here to Winterfell, facing almost certain death, to fight his war. Tell me; who manipulated whom?” The penny dropped for Sansa. Daenerys was right; they didn't need to be at odds with another. They were both working for the same thing; protecting what they loved. Sansa leaned forward and sighed softly.

“I should have thanked you the minute you set foot in these halls,” she admitted. “I know how important Jon’s war is to him. I knew he went south to gain you as an ally. But I was so…”

“Angry that he didn't consult your opinion, considering he left you behind to manage his kingdom?” Daenerys butted in. “He didn't consult me about going north either.

“So that's how you know he's an honourable fool,” Sansa muttered. Daenerys surprised her. She timidly reached out and placed her hands atop of Sansa’s.

“I came because I love your brother, and despite his faults, he is loyal and honest. He's the only man I've ever met who keeps his word, even if it gets him killed,” Daenerys said. “But even he doesn't understand what we've been through.”

“He tries his best,” Sansa said supportively.

“Yes, he does,” Daenerys agreed. The two women giggled as all the tension dissolved in the room.

“So assuming we live. What happens next? We march south, defeat that bitch on the Iron Throne… You become Queen, Jon becomes your consort. But what about the North?” Sansa asked.

“What do you mean?” Daenerys asked.

“We lost the North. We fought to take it back from those who sought to destroy it, and then we swore to never kneel to a southern a ruler again. What will you do to the North?” Sansa asked, with her voice growing in urgency. She had to know. She had heard rumour of Daenerys and her actions in the south. Now she would see for herself. Daenerys didn't recoil, or flinch. She stayed where she was, but the laughter had faded from her eyes.

“If the North wishes to remain independent, then I will grant them that wish,” Daenerys said. “But there would have to be agreements. So that we can work together, and if the North was ever needed…”

“We would come to your aid,” Sansa finished. Daenerys nodded. Sansa felt herself relax. She had heard what she wanted from the Queen. Her home was safe.

“There is something I wanted to ask,” Daenerys said softly. “Jon talked about you. A lot. And I realised as I sailed north that in a way, I envied you. And admired you. Jon kept saying you had a sharp political mind and that when it came time to deal with Cersei, you would be invaluable to our cause.” Sansa felt her cheeks warm with a slight blush. She was humbled by Daenerys’ words. “Since I cant have children, I have to think about succession. But not just who follows me onto the throne… If one of your chief advisors were to die, do you know who would replace them?” The question took Sansa aback. In all honesty, she hadn't contemplated that situation much. There were other pressing matters to attend to.

“I… no, I don't,” Sansa said.

“I asked myself that, sailing north,” Daenerys continued. “I couldn't make Ser Jorah my Hand if Tyrion were to die. Tyrion tells me what I need to hear, not what I want to hear. I need someone at my side who would tell me what is right for everyone, not what is right for me.” Sansa nodded; that was why she chose to confide and seek advice from Yohn Royce. “I must admit I didn't know who I would ask to be my Hand if Tyrion was to perish until recently.”

“Is it Jon?” Sansa asked.

“He's not the greatest man when it comes to politics,” Daenerys pointed out. “No… If Tyrion was to die, then I would ask you to be my Hand of the Queen.” Sansa was dumbfounded. She couldn't believe what she had just heard.

“Me?” she asked, bewildered and shocked. “Your Grace, I…”

“I admire you Sansa,” Daenerys said. “Your resolve, your strength, your heart. It took me a while to realise, I will admit, but there is no one else in the Seven Kingdoms worthy of the position.” Sansa was unable to form sentences. She opened and shut her mouth a couple of times, but Daenerys spoke first. “Only if Tyrion dies.”

“Your honour me, Your Grace,” Sansa said quietly. Daenerys squeezed her hands gently and smiled warmly at her.

“I have taken enough of your time, I apologise,” she said. She stood from her chair and smoothed the front of her dress over. “I better find your brother and try to tell him that everything will be alright. He's distant.” Sansa stood as well and tried to hide how badly she was shaking from Daenerys.

“He's like this before a battle,” she said in reassurance. “He broods a lot before battles.

“Yes, he's very good at brooding,” Daenerys pointed out. She bowed her head and gave Sansa one final smile. “Thank you, Lady Sansa, for your time.” Sansa bowed her head in return.

“Your Grace,” she said. Daenerys turned and left the library. Sansa turned and gripped the chair behind her and let out a long, shaky breath. Hand of the Queen. She had not expected that offer. And yet, despite this proud happy moment, she couldn't help but wonder; what was the motive behind Daenerys’ offer? And would she truly relinquish one of her Seven Kingdoms? Sansa doubted that things would be as easy as Daenerys claimed they would be. But that all depended on everyone surviving the coming night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I actually liked this scene in the show, up till the last bit where Dany pulls her hand away. But there's something I wanted to add, something I'm starting to feel is going to happen.
> 
> Thank you again for the overwhelming response! I actually had a little tear in my eye (Okay it was a big tear) when I saw I'd gone over 150 kudos. It really does mean the world to me and even though I was crying all night listening to Jenny of Oldstones and being sad this show is ending, I'm enjoying having this massive surge of inspiration


	6. Our Final Hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry for being slow recently but ENDGAME WRECKED ME AND I AM NOT OKAY NOR PREPARED FOR EPISODE 3. So to celebrate here's some Gendrya canoodling.  
> If you guys want, I can add the uh, more raunchy part, as a separate work. Let me know in comments if you'd like to see it!

_Thunk._ The arrow flew across the side of the courtyard and into the wooden beam. Arya lowered her bow and measured out the distance between her and the beam. By her count, it was twenty paces. A slight smile crossed her face; she remembered Anguy’s lessons from her time in the Brotherhood. She hoped they would serve her well here. She leaned forward and took another arrow from the wicker basket and nocked it against the string. The wood of the bow creaked and the sound of the sinewy string tensing filled the night air. Arya let go of the arrow and the string snapped forward with a satisfying twang. There was a hiss of the arrow cutting through the air, then another satisfying _thunk._ All of this was a show of course. He was watching her from the shadows. Arya would never tell him that she knew he was there, but she knew he'd been watching for quite some time.

“That for me?” she asked without looking at him. She rested the bow against the basket, then turned to look at Gendry for the first time. The smith stepped forward into the torchlight. Shadows danced across his tired face, but Arya only had eyes for the staff he had leaning against his shoulder. He tilted it forward and thrust it out toward her. She took it gently with her right hand, and glanced up at Gendry. The wooden pole of the weapon had been waxed and polished so there was no chance of splinters occurring in the battle of a fight. There was a dragonglass tip on each end of the staff. The edges of the blades were jagged and razor sharp, but she could see the superior quality of the craft. Arya turned the staff around in a circle in front of her while she walked away from Gendry. She didn't want him to see her grin. “This'll work,” she announced after a moment, trying to raise a reaction out of him. But when she looked back at him he was looking at her with those soft blue eyes filled with worry and concern. She continued to turn the staff around and around in circles, waiting for it to feel imbalanced. But it never did. It was perfectly balanced, as all things should be.

“Last time you saw me, you wanted me to come to Winterfell,” Gendry said, interrupting Arya’s thoughts. “Took the long road, couple of wrong turns…. But…” A half-smile crossed his face and he looked to his feet. Arya spun her staff in front of her and began to walk toward Gendry.

“What did the Red Woman want with you?” She asked as she walked past him. The game of faces had begun.

“She wanted my blood. Some kind of spell. Stannis knew,” Gendry said reluctantly. He clearly hated talking about it.

“Why your blood?” Arya asked, her voice emotionless. She turned to look at him and raised an eyebrow. Gendry turned his head and crossed him arms over his muscular chest.

“I'm Robert Baratheon’s bastard,” he said. Arya caught her staff mid spin and looked up at him. For the first time, she saw those Baratheon features that somehow she and the rest of Westeros had missed up until now. That black hair, those blue eyes… those rippling muscles. At least he didn't drink as much, and hadn't gotten fat. Yet. “I didn't know until she told me. She said she needed king’s blood, so…” he paused and took a breath. “She tied me up, stripped me down and put leeches all over me.” Arya fought to hide her smirk, and also her distress. If she ever saw that bitch again…

“That doesn't sound so bad,” Arya noted. She began to walk forward slowly and ignored Gendry’s muttered curse about that’s what he said. “Was that your first time?” She asked.

“Well yeah, I'd never had leeches put all over me…” Gendry began to say.

“Your first time with a woman,” Arya butted in. She walked up to a stack of crates near a wooden beam and gently laid her new staff down on them. _“Is being thick a bastard thing, or have I just been cursed with two of Westeros’ thickest men as my brother and my best friend?”_ Arya thought to herself.

“Wha’?” Gendry asked. “I didn't… we didn't… I wasn’t with her,” he said exasperatedly. Arya smiled since her back was to him. Good. He wasn't lying. She would have cut him in half if he had been.

“Were you with other girls?” Arya asked, not giving Gendry a chance to continue his story about the Red Woman who she wanted to kill more than ever before. “When you were an apprentice in King’s Landing? Or after?” She turned to look at him with her eyebrow raised once again, then pulled her right glove off. Silence filled the space between them, and then Gendry started stammering. “You don't remember?” Arya asked teasingly. She tilted her head and pulled her left glove off. She then laid her gloves down next to her staff, knowing full well he did remember.

“Yes, I was,” Gendry finally admitted. Arya was slightly disappointed, but then again Robert was loved by many women. No surprise that the same had happened to his son.

“One? Two? Twenty? Did you make the eight?” Arya asked each question in rapid succession. She could see Gendry was getting more and more uncomfortable, but she had to know. She slowly began to stalk in front of him, like a wolf circling its prey.

“I didn't keep count,” Gendry said, flabbergasted and defensive. Arya stopped stalking and turned to face him before clasping her hands behind her back and raising that same eyebrow.

“Yes you did,” she stated after a small pause. Gendry sighed and his shoulders slumped. He nodded a few times and looked down at his feet for a moment.

“Three,” he finally admitted. Arya said nothing. Instead she flicked her eyes down and up, taking him in. He was handsome, and honest. And she loved him still, in her own unorthodox way.

“We’ll probably be dead before long,” she said in her most confident voice, then stalked toward Gendry. “I want to know what it's like before that happens.” Gendry was stunned. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but couldn't form the right words.

“Arya, I…” he began to say, but Arya silenced him by pouncing on him and smashing her face against his. Their kiss was shaky and unexpected, but it didn't take long for the two of them to fall into a rhythm. Arya’s hands undid knots and pulled away Gendry’s layers, and then she undid the clasp of her belt and flicked it to the side. Now she was undoing her own clothes, as was Gendry, until he was shirtless in front of her. She shoved him in the chest and sent him sprawling backward onto the piles of grain, then pulled her shirt up over her head and tossed it where her other clothes had fallen. She was Gendry’s eyes fix on the ugly scars that lined her stomach and her sides. His face softened, and that was the first time she'd felt like all she wanted was for him to hold her and make her feel safe.

“I'm not the red woman,” Arya pointed out, “so you can take your own bloody pants off.” Gendry laughed as he undid the cords of his breeches while Arya slid out of hers. She took a tentative step, then embraced the feeling of the moment and swayed toward him before climbing on top of him. She pressed herself onto his chest and kissed him tenderly. His hands snaked their way to her back and his fingers wound their way into her hair. Arya’s heart was pounding. She had never felt anything like this, and being wrapped in Gendry’s arms had given her this feeling. And she never wanted to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the views, kudos, bookmarks and comments on this work so far. I love you all, taking a moment out of your day to read my blabbering is so flattering and I cannot express my gratitude enough <3


	7. The Dragon Among Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a few hours to go FUCK ME UPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP.

She found Jon brooding in the darkness of the Stark crypts. As if there was any other place she would have found him. There was no one in Westeros who could brood quite like Jon, and he always found the most suitable places to brood. It was quite a remarkable talent he had. Dany stood at the start of the line of crypts and watched him stand there with his head bowed. His direwolf Ghost was sitting at his side, silent as always. She noticed that every stone statue had similar characteristics, in that there was a sword at each person’s feet and a direwolf at their side. Dany felt awkward standing there waiting for him to acknowledge her presence. She wondered if maybe it was best for her to leave; Jon was clearly having a quiet moment and she knew this place was sacred among northmen. But the moment Jon lifted his head and looked at her those thoughts were banished from her mind. She walked forward among the torchlit path past each statue until she was at Jon’s side. His direwolf, Ghost, stared up at her with those unnatural red eyes, then laid down and placed his head between his front paws. She hesitated, waiting for him to initiate contact. Jon noticed this and looked at her, puzzled, then he nodded. Dany closed the gap between him and linked her arms around his and nuzzled her face into the warm furs of his cloak. “Who's that?” She asked, looking at the stone statue. It was carved to resemble a woman with flowers in her hair, but a sad look upon her stone face.

“Lyanna Stark,” Jon said in a tired voice. “She was the first person laid to rest here who wasn't crowned King in the North, or Lord of Winterfell.” Dany took a moment to look back where she walked. There were so many statues that she had passed.

“I had no idea the North had so many independent leaders,” she said in awe. Jon chuckled at her statement.

“The first one was Brandon the Builder. The North was independent for almost nine thousand years, until the dragons,” Jon explained. “There's more in the lower levels of the crypt. But that caved in years ago… There were stories of Winterfell being haunted by the ghosts of the kings gone by. Back then I thought it was just nonsense made up to frighten the children. But now with death on our door…” his voice faded away and he went back to his stoic silence. Dany snuggled herself in tighter to Jon and held his arm close to her chest.

“Lyanna Stark…” Dany said quietly. Yet another Stark her family had wronged. No wonder the northerners hated her. All her family had ever done was hurt their beloved Starks. And considering how they ridiculed the Stark who bent the knee, she wasn't surprised how the ridiculed Jon. Some days she wished she could burn them all and leave those ungrateful shits as ashes in the wind. But she was better than that. “The stories say she was beautiful, peaceful and protective. And everyone told me my brother Rhaegar was peaceful and kind… he liked to sing, he gave money to the beggars in King’s Landing… and yet he kidnapped her and raped her.” Jon shifted where he stood. He only did that when something was on his mind. Dany was becoming familiar with his changes in body language.

“He didn't,” Jon said. Dany looked up at him, confused by where he was going with this. “He loved her.” She sighed and softened her hold on his arm. If he was worried about love… Dany wanted to hold him, to slowly run her hands through his hair and whisper that they would be okay, that they would survive this war. Jon pulled away from her and she let his arm go. He turned to face her and let out a shuddering breath. “They were married in secret. He hid her away from where anyone would find her; a tower in the mountain passage to Dorne. Far away from the war. And after Robert killed Rhaegar on the Trident, for taking the woman he loved away, six northmen rode south to this tower… And the rest is history.” Dany felt her heart ache for him.

“If you're worried about protecting me, I don't need to hide in a tower,” she said softly.

“There's more,” Jon interrupted. “When Lord Stark found her… she was laying in a bed of blood. And in her arms…” he paused, as if he was fighting away tears, “was a baby. She was so afraid… for if Robert had found out about this child, he would have flung it from the cliffs of Storms End himself. Lyanna knew it. So with her dying breath she passed her child to her brother and made him promise to protect the boy.” Dany was lost until now, but then it dawned on her. Her eyes widened as she realised what Jon was saying. He couldn't be… “And so he took the boy and protected him. Raised him as his bastard son.” Dany felt tears sting her eyes. No, this was a dream. This was madness. Jon had lost his mind to fear before the battle. This couldn't be real. “My name… my real name, is Aegon Targaryen.” Dany stepped back from him and let out a shaky breath.

_“No, this can't be,”_ she thought. “That's impossible,” she blurted out.

“I wish it were,” Jon interjected quickly. She noticed that Ghost had opened his eyes and was looking up at her. Those red eyes. Suddenly, all the pieces of the puzzle made sense. The dragons. The direwolf. Jon's view on how he didn't like to fight. The rise from nothing to something. It was all there, clear as day. And she hadn't seen it before now.

“Who told you this?” Dany asked. Jon looked to the ground and then reached around to his back. He produced a folded piece of parchment and handed it to her.

“A letter, from the only other man to survive,” Jon said. Dany took the letter and unfolded it, then read it in the flickering lights of the flames.

_"Jon,_   
_I am sorry we have not met sooner. My name is Howland Reed. I was one of your father’s most loyal bannermen. My ancestors and I have been forever loyal to House Stark. I wish I were writing with happier news, but with death marching south you must know a truth that your father swore me to secrecy on._   
_Years ago when we rode south to Dorne and found Lyanna Stark laying in the Tower, she was not alone. She had given birth to a child. A boy. As your father and I rode back North he made me swear before a heart tree to never speak word of this until the time was right. He told me who the father of the boy was, and his name, and why it must be kept secret. The boy’s father was Rhaegar Targaryen, and his name is Aegon. And that boy, Jon, is you. Lord Eddard planned to raise you as his bastard and wear the shame of being dishonourable to his wife in order to protect you and fulfil his promise to your sister. If he had not, you would be dead by now, such is the fury of Robert Baratheon’s wrath._   
_I have done my best to guard the secret but the end comes for us all. You have a right to know, before the dead march on Winterfell. We will hold the Neck for you, as we have done for generations.  
Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch.”_

Dany lowered the letter. Her hands were shaking and her eyes were burning with tears. “And their marriage?” She asked.

“Bran saw it,” Jon answered.

“Saw it,” Dany repeated in disbelief.

“And Samwell Tarly confirmed it. There was an entry written about it in a High Septon’s diary at the Citadel. He read about it without realising what it meant,” Jon finished. Dany held her composure and instead channelled her anger. It was better than crying.

”A secret kept from spies and gossips for twenty four years,” Dany said, “until your brother saw it and your best friend confirmed it. And now there is a letter from some Lord that I've never heard of.”

“Howland Reed was there,” Jon said. “My father…”

“Was the most honourable man in the Seven Kingdoms, yet raised a Targaryen in secret and served the man who ended my… our house,” Dany spat out. “Doesn't this story seem strange to you?” Jon clenched his hands into balls then relaxed them.

“I didn't want to believe it,” he said, “but it's true. I know it is. Why would they lie about something like this?”

“Because if it is true, you are the last male heir of House Targaryen,” Dany said. “You have the strongest claim to the Iron Throne.”

“I don't care about that,” Jon interrupted.

“But they might,” Dany pointed out. “To the people of Westeros, I am the invader. The conqueror. Yet the King in the North who gave his life for his people emerges as a secret Targaryen. His identity was protected by the most honourable man ever born from one of the most inept kings who ruled. Who do you think the people would rally behind?” Silence fell between the two of them. Jon stepped forward and closed the gap between them. He tentatively put her hand on her arm and looked into her violet eyes.

“I won't let that happen,” he said. “I promise. If you want me to renounce my claim, I will. All I care about is protecting the realms of men.” Dany’s insides were churning like the burning oceans that surrounded Valyria. She stared back into Jon’s grey eyes and grit her teeth.

“Is that all you care about?” She asked. “Protecting the realms of men?” Jon’s face sorted and his hand moved from her arm to her waist.

“No, you know it isn't,” he said in a voice barely louder than a whisper. “I care about you, Daenerys.” Those five words broke her composure, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

“Jon, I…” she began to say, but Ghost got to his feet with his ears pricked. Then she heard it.

**BAROOO! BAROOO! BAROOO!**

The dead had arrived. Dany looked to the entrance of the crypts, then back to Jon. “We have to go,” Jon said, but she felt the reluctance in her voice.

“I don't want to leave,” she whispered back. She let him pull her tight against him and she clutched at the furs that coated his back. “I love you,” she whispered into his chest.

“I know,” Jon murmured back. They stayed in their embrace until they heard the horns blare again and Ghost nudged both of their legs, willing them to move. When Dany let go of Jon, she felt her confidence and surety return. It was time to face the Night King. “You alright?”

“I will be, when he’s dead,” Dany stated. Jon nodded and placed a hand on the pommel of Longclaw.

“And now it begins,” he said softly, then began to walk along the crypts back toward the entrance. Dany followed him on his right while Ghost followed him on his left.

“No,” Dany said when they reached the stone stairs that led out of the crypts. “Now it ends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay y’all this is it, now we assume panic stations for the episode tomorrow. Pray to every fucking god that it's not too heartbreaking… Ah what am I saying, of course it's going to break hearts.


	8. Dawn

There was a ringing in his ears. It made it hard to balance, hard to walk. He stumbled through the courtyard down the path to the godswood. At least, he thought it was the godswood. It was hard to tell with the darkness, and the ringing. His feet slid under him in the snow and he fell more than once, landing on a corpse that had once had blue eyes. Eventually he made it to the grove of trees that framed the heart tree. Theon was there, with a spear though his gut and frozen blood crusted around his mouth. He knelt next to Theon and wiped the blood from his mouth. Then something hit him so hard he was knocked onto his back. He was even more disorientated but when his vision stopped swimming he saw Arya’s face staring down at him. She had blood all over her face and tears streaming down her cheeks but she was alive. He could see that she was saying something, but he could not hear her.

“Jon, it's over,” were the words Arya mouthed. Relief flooded through him and he hugged her again, then sat up. He took a moment to kiss her forehead and muss her hair before he got to his feet. Jon walked across the snowy yard and wrapped his arms around Bran in a tight hug. He felt Arya leap on top of them and join in their embrace. But they didn't stay like that for long. Jon had to find her. He pulled away from the family he had grew up with and walked away. Arya and Bran watched him go, knowing where he was headed. Jon walked back into the castle walls and began navigating through the bodies. He hadn't seen anyone he knew yet. As he walked closer to the gates, he found people he recognised. Brienne, Jaime, Pod… Tormund walked up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. He was soaked in blood. Jon saw the smith, Gendry, leaning against a wall. Everyone was exhausted. He lingered a moment and tried to shake the ringing from his ears but it persisted. Jon saw the look on Gendry’s face when Arya walked into the courtyard. He watched him run to her and sweep her into his arms and kiss her. He wasn't angry; he was glad his sister had found peace. It was time for him to move again. Jon wandered through the bodies, and saw someone he recognised. Beric his armour torn to pieces. Then he saw little Lyanna Mormont, with her armour crushed. And finally he saw his brother in black, Edd, laying there. Sam was kneeling next to him. And standing over the fallen Lord Commander of the Nights Watch was Ghost. The direwolf’s head was bowed with his nose touching Edd’s cheek. Jon approached and Ghost lifted his head. He knelt next to Edd and placed a hand on his shoulder.

_“We shall never see his like again,”_ Jon thought. He would mourn Edd later. But he hadn't seen a mop of blonde hair among the dead. He had to find her. He rose from his knees and walked out of the main gate out onto the battlefield. The sun was rising and for the first time Jon saw the devastation that had been inflicted. Winterfell was a ruin, with corpses lining the field as far as the eye could see. Jon saw Drogon landed on the battlefield, huddled over something. He started to run, but his legs were so tired that he slipped and fell over more bodies. He groaned and struggled back to his feet, and for the first time since Viserion’s deafening roar, he could hear. He could hear her crying, her sobs echoing over the empty fields in the silence of the dawn. She was alive. But her heart was broken. Jon scrambled to his feet and moved as fast as he physically could until he was at Drogon’s side. He fell to his knees and crawled under the dragon’s wing. He had to see.

Dany was knelt there beside Drogon’s head, cradling Ser Jorah Mormont on her arms. Her voice was ruined from wailing and crying, and her clothing was covered in blood and ash. Jon came to her side and wrapped his arms around her, then pressed her head into his chest. “It's alright, you're alright,” he whispered in her ear. Ghost wandered around in front of them and stood over Ser Jorah. Dany sobbed into Jon’s chest and clutched at his tunic. “I'm so sorry Dany,” Jon whispered again. Dany couldn't form words. Her voice was almost gone from her hysterics. Instead she held herself against Jon, and he could feel her body shaking with every shuddering breath she took. Drogon whimpered behind them. It sounded mournful, like he was also morning the gallant warrior who had fallen to protect Daenerys. Jon wrapped his arms tighter around Dany and gently kissed the top of her head. “Dany,” he whispered. She pulled her face away from his chest and looked up at him. Her violet eyes were red from crying and she had a nasty cut to her forehead that was still bleeding. “It's over. The Night King is dead. We did it.” Dany let out a long shaky breath and cupped her hand against Jon’s cheek.

“We did it,” she echoed in a cracked voice. Jon looked down at Ser Jorah again. His eyes were open, staring into the light of the dawn. Jon reached his hand down and gently closed his eyes. Dany couldn't watch and pressed her face into his chest and wept again. Jon noticed that there was a second sword laying next to Heartsbane. She must have used it to fight. He sighed and wrapped his arms around Dany once again.

“You need to be seen by a Maester,” Jon said after a long moment. Dany shook her head and held him tighter.

“I cant leave him,” she whispered. “He protected me till the end.” Jon held her tighter against himself and pressed another kiss to the top of her head.

“Ghost can carry him in,” he said. Dany looked up at him, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks.

“He was a good man,” she said in a shaky voice. “An honourable man. Loyal to the end.” Now it was Jon’s turn to cup his hand against Dany’s cheek and trace her cheekbone with his thumb.

“Aye, he was,” he said in agreement. “He was good, all the way through.” Jon couldn't take his eyes away from Dany. And for the first time, his composure cracked. “I thought I lost you,” he croaked out as a tear dropped down his cheek. “I thought…” Now it was his turn to be held. Dany gently pulled his head to her stomach and ran her hands through his hair.

“I thought I lost you too,” she whispered back. “I was so scared…”

“We’re alright now,” Jon managed to say before emotions overwhelmed him. Dany hugged him against her chest and continued to run her hands through his hair as he finally let out the tears he had been holding back. They didn't make any attempt to move, they just stayed that way as the sun rose and the light of the dawn continued to spread across Winterfell.

The Long Night was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the only thing that I think I can add. I’m going to spare you guys from a rant but I was speechless at the end of that episode. I sat there for about 20 minutes just stunned. Didn’t expect that and didn’t know how to process it.


	9. Good Boy

Ghost was waiting for him in the courtyard. Jon walked toward his direwolf and knelt down in front of the great animal and pressed his forehead to Ghost’s scarred head. “I was worried about you,” Jon murmured as he pressed a kiss to the scarred skin. He pulled his face away and scratched Ghost behind the ears, being careful not to touch the stump where one of his ears had been ripped away. “I should never have let you into the charge.” He sighed and ran his fingers through Ghost’s fur. “It feels like I've been a fool recently.” Ghost nuzzled his nose into Jon’s other hand and then looked up at him with those luminous red eyes. Jon smiled and ruffled the direwolf’s fur. “I'm headed south boy. To King’s Landing. The south is no place for a direwolf.” He sighed and felt his heart ache. There was no easy way for him to say what came next, even though he knew it was the right thing to do. “Tormund is going North. Go with him, and when I return from the south I'll come and get you.” Ghost continued to stare at Jon, his ears twitching at all the sounds of the courtyards. “I don't want you to leave, but I don't want you to die boy.” Jon blinked away a tear that was forming in his eye and cursed at himself silently. “You deserve better than that.” Ghost lowered his head, and Jon could tell the direwolf was as heartbroken as he was. “I'll miss you boy. I will. You were the best companion a man could ever ask for. Forever loyal. But I'll see you soon, I promise.” It was then that Ghost placed his front paws on Jon’s shoulders and unceremoniously dragged himself over Jon’s shoulder. Jon was stunned at the direwolf’s intelligence, but he wrapped his arms around Ghost’s middle and hugged the great wolf. “Thank you Ghost. For everything.” He nuzzled his face into Ghosts soft fur one last time and wept silently. He didn't want Ghost to go, but bringing him south was a death sentence. Jon held the wolf tighter as he wept openly, paying no care to the world around him. No one had been as loyal as Ghost, and he was forever grateful for the wolf’s company. He would be irreplaceable. Jon pulled away from Ghost after a long while and the wolf detached himself and stood in front of Jon. Jon bowed his head and let Ghost nuzzle his face and lick away his tears. Eventually Ghost pulled away and Jon scratched under his jaw again. 

“Thank you boy,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. Ghost blinked, and Jon knew he had understood. Ghost always had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Season 8 has broken my heart so much that I don't even want to correct the shit writing anymore. I just want to rewrite the season from Season 6 onward.  
> So that's what I'm going to do. Soon.


	10. A Letter

Hey guys,

I just wanted to communicate clearly and honestly with you all. Season 8 has reached the point where I no longer am invested in the story. It's a sad day, and I thought it would never happen, but I honestly couldn't care less about the finale given how the characters and the narrative have been, in my opinion, butchered beyond repair.

There are several options available to me. At first, I contemplated just stopping writing all together. my heart was broken after Episode 4 and Episode 5 was just the numbing punch to the head that sealed the deal. But I saw a meme going around, that was something like "write like D&D will finish your story if you don't" and that filled me with the surge of anger that I needed.

So. I'm going to tell you all about what I have planned. Firstly, I'm writing a new Modern AU fic involving Sansaery, Jonerys and Gendrya. it's a rehash of my first fic on this site, Learning to Love, and so far I have 12 chapters planned out and one in the process of writing. It's going to be a lot of laughs and it's honestly my angst relief work.

The other work I have in progress is a rewrite of the TV show starting from Season 6, Episode 4. There are going to be some retcons along the way and characters will have different arcs but I have somewhat of a clear vision of what I want to do with it. Currently I have one chapter planned and another in planning, with some other ideas mapped out. Not to spoil anything, but Euron is going to do some "mystic wizard pirate shit" according to one of my betas. Obviously the canon rewrite is a lot harder to map out which is why its less progressed.

I hope to have a chapter of one of these two new works up soon to satiate you all, but I just wanted to thank everyone who has read this, commented on it, left kudos and/or bookmarked it. Your support means the world to me and I can't wait to see what comes next. So yeah, thank you once again and keep an eye out for some subscription emails coming soon!

Love you all <3


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